


F i v e.

by Uchihas_rose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 05:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17975141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uchihas_rose/pseuds/Uchihas_rose





	F i v e.

Human life is all about numbers. Digits. It’s a code, easy to crack if you got the right tools and quite an understanding of numbers and mathematics.

People are dust and numbers, after all.

In your life, the scientific number is _five_.

Five people who couldn’t be any more different from each other and still, that one thing they have in common is what makes them _special_. For you.

 

 

At first, Molly Hooper hadn’t seemed to be important. She was nothing, just a part in your rouse, a sweet, innocent thing, easy to manipulate and being used for your plan. She was even less than nothing, that shy girl with her fascination of death and corpses, but that is one of those things you have in common. Your fascination of death and Sherlock.

It was never meant to be more than a rouse. A superficial fling, taking advantage of her to achieve your actual goal.

In the beginning, that was exactly what is was. Molly Hooper was unimportant. You flirted, quite successfully, you teased her whenever you had the chance, but at some point, it became different.

You noticed it the first time you stayed overnight, watching _Glee_ because she wanted to, and petting her cat. You noticed it when she smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. You realized she wasn’t as innocent as she pretended to be. She was struggling for Sherlock’s attention – she didn’t want you, she wanted him.

That night, you came to some mutual agreement – you would keep pretending.

You both knew it would never be real; there would never be something, but both of you needed the comfort of another broken soul. Molly just didn’t know _how_ broken you really were. How wicked. How wrong.

You kept the farce. You let Sebastian growl at you and brooding and cursing and smashing several objects in your flat. You let him believe you slept with Molly.

The day you decide to end it all, to break Sherlock, to watch him fall, you set Sebastian and two other assassins he chose for the task on Sherlock’s friends. You set them on the landlady. The Detective Inspector. The doctor.

You don’t set one on Molly. Maybe you think by sparing her you can save the last part of you that is good. That is human.

She never finds out about it. You let everyone believe you didn’t consider her important enough to be a target.

You pull the trigger and blow your brains out.

Everyone believes you have died.

You use the distraction on the pavement after Sherlock has jumped to leave London.

For three years, you let everyone believe you have died. You fool them all. You let Mycroft and Sherlock hunt down your people, watch them as they dismantle your network piece by piece. Most of your lieutenants are arrested. None of them betray you. The one who utters a name closely resembling your own is killed five hours later by a poisonous spider.

You admire the irony in that while you are sitting at your family’s manor in Ireland, keeping track of the events in London.

 

After three years, you return to London, silently, unnoticed at first. Mrs Halifax is almost getting a heart attack when you enter 44 Conduit Street again, but she is relieved to see you alive.

Sebastian is too, although he has weird way of showing it. He almost shoots you, then he yells at you, telling you what a fucking rotten bastard you are, but you know he is relieved to see you.

You rebuilt your web. Your criminal empire rises again, like a phoenix from the ashes. Not without consequences, of course.

 

You should have known that reclaiming your kingdom would not be easy. There always have been _sharks_ lurking in the background, waiting for the right moment to take what is yours. You, of course, could not accept that, so you went to confront the shark.

Magnussen.

You have never been overly fond of each other. You always remind at a distant, professional level; collegial curtesy. Until _The Collector_ tried to take something that is yours and yours alone. He tried to take the only person you ever really loved.

The ability to shapeshift is always inherited by the oldest child.

Magnussen is able to do it.

Sebastian is able to do it.

Mycroft is able to do it.

You are able to do it.

 

Magnussen shifts into a shark – surprise, surprise, who would have guessed that?

Mycroft is a peregrine falcon – so typical for the British Government, isn’t it?

You are a magpie – not a spider, like Sherlock always believed. Is it still gnawing on him that he was wrong about that?

Sebastian is a tiger – a Golden Tabby tiger, also known as Strawberry tiger. Extremely rare; there are only 30 of them left in the wild.

When Magnussen found out about it, he became obsessed. Mrs Halifax attacked him with a frying pan twice when he sent his lackeys to Conduit Street, but you knew that wouldn’t be able to stop him for long.

You took precautions. You made a deal with the _devil_.

Calling him the _devil_ would be the wrong term to use. They’re calling you devil already, so you clearly can’t make a deal with yourself – where would be the point in that? Neither is he an angel and unlike Sherlock, he never stated being on their side.

You didn’t like going to him, admitting your weakness to him. You always boasted to only have _one_ weakness – your changeability; there was no way anyone would ever find out about that more pathetic and ordinary weakness of yours, your _pressure point_. But you didn’t have a choice.

 

He is enjoying it, he is taking advantage of it. You have always known he is a sick piece of shit.

You bite down on the gag as he chokes you, leaving visible imprints of his fingertips on your neck and throat. You hiss and spit and curse, all of it muffled by the gag; you tear at the silk ties he used to bind your hand to the bedposts, only to tighten the knots even more.

He chokes you again, so hard you see lights flicker before your eyes for a few seconds, before cumming. You barely notice him withdrawing from you, untying your hands, taking the gag out of your mouth.

When he first fucked you, you screamed so loud, Sebastian came bursting into the room, pointing a loaded and primed gun at him.

It was your job to calm Sebastian down, telling him you were alright, that everything was fine.

He didn’t believe you, but he left anyways and since that _incident_ Mycroft has never fucked you without gagging you first.

Apparently, the British Government isn’t too fond of having a bullet hole between his eyes.

 

Mycroft gets dressed while you remain lying in this huge bed, catching your breath. He watches you from the corner of his eye, a thin, sly smirk on his lips. You ignore it, as always, before you too finally get up and put your suit back on. No emotion is visible on your face. There are no feelings involved. You let him fuck you once a week, give him the triumph of forcing the Napoleon of Crime, the Consulting Criminal, the most dangerous man in London to his knees – and in exchange, he keeps Magnussen away from Sebastian.

You finish buttoning your suit, run a hand through your hair to smooth it down again and walk towards the door.

“See you next week, James.”

Your only response is the raised middle finger of your left hand, then you leave the bedroom.

 

The living room smells of smoke when you enter it. Sebastian is just about to light another cigarette when he sees you coming into the room. His eyes focus on the choke marks on your neck and he bares his teeth in a snarl. You notice the short flicker of striped fur running over his body – it takes him everything he’s got to remain calm, not to shift and rip Mycroft’s throat out.

You haven’t told him. You do not intend on ever telling him why he is sitting in Mycroft’s living room once a week, waiting while having to listen to Mycroft fucking you.

He would only try to take matters in his own hands – he would walk straight to Appledore to kill Magnussen himself in order to free you from Mycroft’s leash and he might not be coming back.

_Brave, loyal, faithful tiger…_

He would kill anyone for you. You just have to give the word. He would shoot, stab, maul whoever you tell him to without ever asking why.

 

Mycroft enters the room after you and Sebastian jumps to his feet, his hand moving towards his hip where he keeps one of his handguns.

You know how much Sebastian’s jealous behaviour amuses Mycroft, but you also know that, should Sebastian ever try to lay a hand on Mycroft, your agreement becomes void and Mycroft will have him delivered to Magnussen within a heartbeat.

“Moran!”, you don’t have to say more. He clenches his jaw, glares at Mycroft in pure hatred, his nostrils flaring.

You don’t have to see Mycroft’s face to know he is smirking.

“Let’s go”, you say without turning back to Mycroft, eyes still fixed on Sebastian, “come on.”

He snarls again, a quite warning, before putting an arm around your shoulders, leading you out of Mycroft’s place where the motor cycle is waiting on the street.

You hear Mycroft snicker about Sebastian’s behaviour – he is doing it on purpose, you know; sometimes you wonder if he gets off on it too.

 

Both of you put on your helmets and leave just seconds later. You both want to get away from this place as quickly as possible, leaving any thought of Mycroft behind until next week. You don’t allow him _that_ much power over you.

Nobody talks until you reach Conduit Street. Sebastian opens the door and you enter, ignoring the noises of the brothel around you.

Still quiet, you walk up the stairs to your rooms where you drop down on the sofa while Sebastian vanishes into another room and returns shortly afterwards, carrying a bottle of Irish whisky and antiseptic.

 

He pours two glasses before treating the marks Mycroft’s fingers left on your skin. His jaw is tightly clenched; he inhales and exhales deeply – you know how much self-control it requires of him to stay with you and not driving back to Mycroft’s place, ripping the black hole he calls _heart_ out of his chest, and delivering it to you.

His touch is gentle, careful. You would never permit Mycroft to treat the marks he’s leaving. You don’t want Mycroft to touch you like Sebastian does, caring, concerned. Taking care of you is not Mycroft’s job.

“What do you think Sherlock would say if he ever finds out about this… Whatever it is?”

You close your eyes and sigh quietly. It’s the same question, over and over again, every time.

_What would Sherlock say?_

It is a rather good question, after all, but you don’t think Sherlock would be concerned about it much. Sherlock would do the same for his doctor pet, after all. It is exactly like you told him – him and you are just alike. There is nothing you wouldn’t do to keep Sebastian safe, just like Sherlock would do anything to keep Dr Watson safe.

He has proven that already – he took the fall to save his friends. Of course, he was faking it, but so were you.

Maybe of all people, Sherlock would be the one to understand your situation. He despises Magnussen too, after all – if Magnussen had been targeting John, Sherlock would have done everything in his power to save his doctor pet. Maybe he would have asked his brother for help too.

Sometimes you wonder if you should have gone to Sherlock first. Ask him to tell his brother to keep an eye on Magnussen – Sherlock probably wouldn’t even had to list a reason.

You remember the look on his face when he realized you were still alive – shocked, but excited at the same time since he knew there would be multiple new _playdates_ for the both of you.

He understands you on a level nobody else does, not even Sebastian. He knows what it’s like to be the clever kid in school, the know-it-all, the one who doesn’t fit into the other’s world. The outcast.

He is your mirror, your _good twin_ , your equal. You share something no ordinary human being will ever be able to understand. He _gets_ you, the way your mind works, the constant boredom, the craving for entertainment.

Nobody else ever understood that.

That’s why you keep playing, why you keep sending him crimes to solve – especially when your client messed it up and bored you with his petty problem or you sell him out just because you can and as a warning not to mess with you. Mostly, you do that when they’re owing you money and you can’t send Sebastian to kill them or because you want to watch the doom fall upon a member of London’s most respectable High Society.

Since your encounter on the roof of St Bart’s, he hasn’t disappointed you again. That’s why you are still in contact with him, challenging him to another game.

You find some sort of comfort in that.

After all, every fairy tale needs a good, old-fashioned villain.

 

Sebastian is still waiting for an answer, glancing you impatiently.

Again, you sigh deeply, roll your eyes and take a sip of whisky.

“There is no need for Sherlock to find out about this”, you respond, putting the glass down again and laying your head back, so Sebastian can treat the marks directly on your throat better.

“This is none of his concern.”

You make clear the discussion is done for. You will not continue this matter any further – you only end up arguing and that is the last thing you want.

Sebastian inhales deeply, but nods, and keeps treating your throat.

Your phone vibrates, just as Sebastian has finished, and immediately his eyebrows narrow. Today is really not a good day to be in love with James Moriarty, you think, because you know who sent this text message. Sebastian’s patience is being tested to the core, it seems.

 

You read Irene’s message, but don’t reply.

She is used to it after all – Sherlock has barely bothered to answer her as well.

You still call her _That Bitch_ , but your relationship has changed.

Hell knows how she found out you didn’t die, let alone knew where you were – but some day she was there, standing in front of your door with a suit case and her usual smile, and before you had realised it, she was inside your house.

At first, you were more than certain it wouldn’t work out. You have never been overly fond of her since she tricked you into starting a civil war in Ruritania, causing you to name her _That Bitch_ in return.

You were surprised how much she had changed. She was still a tease, still the dominatrix, still looking for any scandal and still thinking of her own benefit, but during those two-and-a-half years you lived together, you got used to her presence.

She was keeping you entertained, she made fun of Scotland Yard’s stupidity with you and she mockingly suggested to found an _I faked my own death-club_ and inviting Sherlock to join them.

You would have never believed to ever feel comfortable around her, but in those three years, you became incredibly close and you were grateful for her presence.

After your return to London, you stayed in touch – you even let her stay at Moriarty manor in Ireland, since she had nowhere else to go.

You are texting on an almost daily basis – sharing some amusing anecdotes, coming up with new ways to annoy Sherlock, betting how long Mycroft’s diet will last this time (Irene won the last two rounds, very much to your disappointment and anger) or discussing the latest fashion trends.

Sebastian hates it, you know, no matter how often you tell him it’s nothing, just simple conversation. You are surprised he didn’t take a plane to Ireland already and shot her head right off.

 

_Jealous tiger…_

You love him for that, although it can be annoying from time to time, especially when he has no reason to.

You bury your hands in his hair, pulling him closer and press your nose against his neck.

He is yours, yours alone, no one will ever lay a finger on him as long as you draw breath. You would have never believed ever being able to _love_ someone so much, to _care_ for another human being so much as for him.

He makes you feel safe, sane even, on some days, and you just love him so. _Fucking. Much._

Sometimes, you curse him for that, for becoming another _weakness_ of yours, a pressure point, but it doesn’t matter.

He is just as insane as you are, following his own guide lines whenever he considers it fit and he loves to kill.

It wasn’t supposed to end that way when you first met, when you were simply looking for a shot, someone who knew how to handle a gun. You made him your second in command and he never disappointed you.

You cannot imagine your life without him anymore. That’s why you left your initials all over his skin – his back, his chest… You carved them in with a knife, you burnt them in, reminding everyone in this whole world that he is yours.

He protects you, he kills for you, he fucks you and he is holding you at night when you are having a nightmare. He is the only person with whom you can be _weak_.

He’d do anything for you. And you love him so much for that, it sometimes terrifies you.

 

 

In your life, the scientific number is _five_.

Five people who couldn’t be any more different from each other and still, that one thing they have in common is what makes them _special_. For you.

Five is a bigger number than one, everyone agrees on that.

But _one_ person who is willing to risk everything for you is far more worth than five people whose loyalty is uncertain and shattered.


End file.
